No Better Way (fic)
Synopsis: A young Sisyphus has an argument with his father, and considers his future as a Gold Saint of Athena. 4k words, character study.
Author's notes: It was never established exactly how it was proven Sisyphus and Ilias were half-siblings, so we gave them a father. That father had to explain both of their personalities. All titles are in the proper Greek forms, but is otherwise canon-compliant. Warnings for semi-onscreen major character death.
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It's late, he thought. That was the only truly coherent thought he could manage, with every fragmented idea and swelling emotion chasing each other around like storm clouds in his mind. It was almost midnight, and he'd gone for a walk to try and clear his head, for all the good it had done him. Not far, really, just around the Twelve Temples, no more than he would normally do on a quick, early-morning patrol before everyone got up for the day.
He was lucky, really. Iptámenos Ichthýs wasn't so lucky. Toxótis Darren - Papa - had shot him down with a single arrow to the back of his neck, and Sisyphus had stood by, unable to move, unable to look away. Someone who cared had to see. Someone who cared had to know what happened, as the young man fell. He wasn't much older than Sisyphus was. They'd been joking around not a week prior, laughing between training sets, all too aware that one of the serving Gold Saints would come to check on them soon enough.
He stopped, looking up at the temple halfway set into the mountainside. No one lived here, right now. Karkínos Sage - Pope Sage - lived at the top of the mountain, just before Athena's quarters. She would reincarnate in the next decade or two, so the rumour went. May she be kinder.
"Deserters are executed, boy. That is the duty of the Toxótis Saint. He tried to desert, I could not convince him to return. And so I executed him. That is what the Pope requires, and no deserter is worth breaking the Pope's laws."
"You didn't even try to talk to him!"
"He would not have listened."
Sisyphus shook his head. He had returned alone to Spíti-Toxótis, under his father's orders. He had passed by the mess hall and gathered dinner for them both. He hadn't touched it: his stomach was still churning, hours later. Iptámenos Ichthýs hadn't even seen the arrow coming. He had been running, as fast as he could - they weren't old enough to run at the speed of sound, they hadn't been taught, and none of them could have outran his father, Ilias had learned his tracking skills somewhere and even he couldn't have snuck out without Papa knowing - and it hadn't been enough.
Their argument had continued as dusk fell, over the dinner table where Papa primarily kept his paperwork. He'd written the report of the cadet's death while arguing with Sisyphus, his tone always the same: firm and dry and cold. Bleak, now that he thought about it. Papa had looked up only once as he wrote his report, and Sisyphus had seen his own eyes reflected back at him, blue as the sea, and the exhaustion that his father always carried.
That was the worst of it, every night he had a nightmare he couldn't shake off, and he walked down the hall to find comfort in his father's presence. Papa always returned late at night, and would leave hours before Sisyphus ever needed to be up, even as he was often up at dawn for training. He'd only once ever seen his father get more than five hours of sleep without severe illness or injury, and that had been his own fault.
Sisyphus looked up at the temple pillars, biting his lip. How many people have died at your orders, instead of finding a better way? he thought. Spíti-Karkínos didn't reply. He hadn't really expected it to.
Maybe if he returned now, and apologized to his father for his disrespect, Papa would sigh in that heavy way, rise from his chair at the dinner table and let Sisyphus embrace him. Most of the time, he didn't. Most of the time, Papa's cosmos burned with lightning and light, and it wasn't always safe to approach him. But if it was safe enough to approach, and Sisyphus embraced him, he would always, always hold him back.
"The duties of a Saint are difficult and necessary, boy. Just because you might disagree do not make them any less required."
"There's- there's got to be a better way! He was scared, that was all! He didn't have you or anyone the way I do if I get scared! You didn't have to-"
"Silence, Sisyphus. Return to Spíti-Toxótis, and inform Zaphiri on your way up. He will inform the Pope, while I deal with this."
"I-I… Yes, sir."
Skorpiós Zaphiri had taken the news gravely, with an unreadable expression, before turning and walking through the entry hallway of his temple. They had walked together in silence until they had reached Spíti-Toxótis: Sisyphus had stayed, and Zaphiri had continued up the mountain. His cosmos indicated he was still up there. Maybe arguing. Zaphiri was nothing short of rude to everyone and everything, but he also rarely punished disobedience or harmless misconduct. Maybe Zaphiri would see the lack of sense in Sage's orders.
He could keep walking down to Spíti-Léon, but it wouldn't be of any use. Ilias was never home, really. If Papa overworked himself, Ilias went further, because Ilias rarely came home. When he did, it was to help Sisyphus train for a few days and resupply, before returning to wherever it was that he went. Sisyphus wasn't allowed access to the mission reports, and Papa never told him.
Ilias still had a room in Spíti-Toxótis, a room he wasn't allowed to use any more. The moment he had attained his Cloth, he had been forced to move to Spíti-Léon, and hadn't looked back. He didn't even linger to eat dinner with them, anymore. Sometimes he'd eat with Ichthýes Lugonis, if the latter felt like being social, but that was the most he did.
Sisyphus missed his brother and his calm, unwavering confidence. Papa wouldn't let Sisyphus get a word in edgewise, would never tolerate the argument for more than a few moments. Ilias would understand. Ilias wouldn't have killed that boy. Ilias wouldn't have asked Sisyphus to inform Zaphiri and then wait at home. Ilias would have asked Sisyphus to accompany Zaphiri instead, because unlike Papa, Ilias trusted Sisyphus to do things properly.
Maybe it was better that it wasn't Ilias. Sisyphus would have messed it all up, like he always did. He considered for a moment continuing down the mountain, speaking to Aspros before he retired for the night, or Rasgado.
It wouldn't do any good. He knew that. And… if he went back, and apologized, Papa would hold him in his grief, and talk to him all evening, if he asked for it. Old mission stories, and embarrassing moments of Dídymoi Tobias', and all the other armies Papa had fought, against and alongside. He'd fall asleep leaning against his father. Nothing would be right, of course, Iptámenos Ichthýs would still be dead, but he'd be able to manage a day of training with a gaping hole where his friend had been.
A wave of anger shot through him, and he swung out, slamming his fist into the pillar. "You didn't have to make him do that!" he snarled. The tears choked in his throat. Shards fell from the marble pillar, clattering to the ground. His tears didn't fall. "You didn't have to push it that far!"
A shooting star shot through the sky. His friend, gone. There wasn't any point to his death, and now he was gone, and all the things he could have been and done were gone with him.
Sisyphus pulled his hand back. It was barely scuffed. He shook it out, and started to walk again. It had to be hard on Papa - there were some stories he wouldn't tell, some that made him trail off instead of finish. He always looked more exhausted than normal, after a battle, after every time he was forced to use his Cloth to kill. If he hadn't killed Iptámenos Ichthýs, someone else would have, and Sisyphus wasn't stupid or naive enough to think Ichthýes Lugonis would have made it so painless.
He wiped at his eyes with the side of his hand, and trudged towards home. Maybe they'd make a late-night snack, or something nice, just the two of them. Sisyphus hadn't lived in Sanctuary before his brother had attained a Cloth, he had never known what it might have been, to be the three of them.
He hated how Pope Sage was so determined to separate every family. Aspros and his brother, Sisyphus and Papa and Ilias, even Lugonis and his sibling, who Sisyphus knew nothing about. He hated how so much was asked of Papa and Ilias, even as he didn't know if he'd be able to manage that sort of responsibility, once…
No. He wouldn't succeed his father for years, at least. Aspros could claim Dídymoi the moment he was strong enough, yes, with Tobias permanently disabled. Rasgado's cloth hadn't been claimed by anyone in at least a century. Sisyphus knew his father: he wouldn't retire from duty unless Pope Sage himself ordered him to. Too much had to be done.
"Boy, what are you doing?"
"S-Sir, I… I can't sleep, I know I need to be training tomorrow, I-I guess I just…"
"What."
"I had this awful nightmare…"
"Boy, you are a Saint cadet. I will not always be here to console you. You must be stronge- oof!"
"You're… you're right. You won't be here. I-I should come to you every time, because you won't be here, and this way I won't regret not coming to you when you're dead and gone and I can't draw strength from you!"
"Urk… fine. Just this once."
The air cooled as he ascended, walking slowly back up to Spíti-Toxótis. Papa would either be finishing up his report, or he would have drawn a bath, and Sisyphus would have an hour or so for some late-night training, to blow off steam before trying to get some sleep.
Not that he expected to get much, tonight. Not after his friend's attempted desertion. It would be the talk of every cadet tomorrow, and he'd be the target for most of the questions. He'd been there. He would know.
The temple was quiet as he approached, climbing up the last few steps before stepping into the side door that lead to their actual residence. Most of the temple was storage, anyway, hallways they hadn't walked in years and didn't bother to dust, either. They didn't need that much space: the most they used was the bath, better for recovering injuries than the open sea and also easier to manage when Papa came home soaked head to toe in his own blood, and Sisyphus was given the task of cleaning Toxótis.
The door opened easily, without any of the resistance it ordinarily gave. Sisyphus closed it slowly, noting that he was burning his cosmos more than he meant to. It closed with a final click of a lock being turned: a lock he hadn't turned.
He couldn't feel Papa's emotions from the temple, and that was probably a good thing: he'd be preparing a bath, then, chasing the worries of his duties from his mind. A habit they both indulged in, that according to Papa, had been taught to him by Lugonis' predecessor once upon a time.
Sisyphus yawned, turning towards the kitchen first. They still had some cocoa from the last shipment, cocoa that Papa had carefully stashed away, knowing full well if he didn't, the twins would drink it all on him. He liked cocoa, although it was quite bitter without milk and a bit of sugar.
The kettle boiled quickly when he burned his cosmos to heat it - it was some ancient magic that allowed them wellspouts in the temples, pure and fresh without having to haul it - and he mixed in the cocoa, too weary to hum to himself as he might normally have done. Papa liked extra sugar in his, and Sisyphus preferred more milk. He made two cups, setting them both on a tray before turning toward the bath.
The tray was an excellent idea. He didn't drop it as he might have dropped at least one of the cups, Iptámenos Ichthýs' death flashing over and over in his mind. No, Sisyphus, he thought, firmly as he could. It will be fine. Papa… Papa did what he had to do.
He couldn't reason with himself very well, but Papa would be able to. Papa would be certainly more amenable to doing so, once offered cocoa. So long as he focused on the warmth in his father's cosmos once they made up…
The lamps in the bath were still lit, the door open. He couldn't feel the steam that would habitually indicate Papa's presence. He might have gotten distracted-
Sisyphus found he could run at the speed of sound, after all. He skidded to a stop, the cocoa carefully not splashing out of their cups. The bath wasn't running. He set the tray down on the nearest table, alongside a few towels. Slowly, as if in a dream, he stepped forward, more tense than he had ever been save for one overheated, frozen evening.
Sisyphus pressed his back into Aspros' side, a white cape around his shoulders, the bow of Toxótis clutched in his hands. The bow that had murdered his friend not four hours prior. The bow that belonged to Papa, that belonged to him, now.
Later on, he would say he couldn't remember anything about what he found. For now, all he could say was that he started screaming, and he didn't know when he would stop.
.
Pope Sage was pacing in front of them. Rasgado had been tasked with calming down much of the other cadets, and keeping rumours from flying. Skorpiós Zaphiri and Ichthýes Lugonis were investigating, so they'd said. Lugonis had been the first to find him, kicking through a window and landing not ten feet from Papa. Zaphiri hadn't been far behind.
Aspros had been the one called to calm Sisyphus down enough to tell them what had happened. Even now, he didn't remember what he'd said. Only that Zaphiri had been right there, shaking his shoulders, demanding to know what he'd done.
It was a good thing that Pope Sage had sent him away. Sisyphus wasn't sure if he could ever face the man again.
He stared down at Papa's bow, the gold metal gleaming and sparkling with active, alive cosmos. Two things Papa couldn't give him anymore. The metal shone, but it wasn't mirror-bright: no, it was dusted with fingerprints and wear - Papa's fingerprints, would they be wiped away as he used it? Would he ever be able to fire this bow? Papa was supposed to tell him how he was going to manage this, and he couldn't back down, deserters deserve only death-
The click of metal boots echoed in the hallway just outside. He felt Aspros look up, and after a moment, he forced his own chin to rise. Ichthýes Lugonis walked in, cape held tight in one hand in front of him, Zaphiri some six feet behind him. His eyes were green, and cold, and marred by dark circles. His hair was messier than usual, not even in its usual ponytail. Underneath his boots and tassets were sleepwear: he'd been woken by Sisyphus' screaming, and had called his Cloth on the way.
Six feet down for any grave, Sisyphus thought, a note of hysteria cracking on the final syllable. Pope Sage stopped pacing.
"Report, Ichthýes."
Lugonis shrugged. "Rigor mortis hasn't set in. Zaph thought he'd tripped - stupid way to go - but the internal bleeding on his face doesn't support that. Lips were blue, though. I'd have to do some other tests to see for sure, but it looks a hell of a lot like what happened to the old Vulpecula. You remember the one."
Out of the corner of his eye, Sisyphus saw Aspros flinch. Yes, he remembered the Vulpecula: a Saint who'd lived to be in his seventies. He'd been just fine, old but still capable. He'd stopped mid-sentence and dropped dead. Aspros had seen it, Sisyphus hadn't.
Pope Sage stilled, studying Lugonis. "We asked the nearest coroner, when the Vulpecula died. They said a blood vessel in his brain had burst."
Lugonis nodded. "I can say with some certainty that ol' Darren was most likely dead before he hit the ground. Prob'ly his bad habits we all told him to quit. Slightly less stupid, but you know, still stupid."
Sisyphus stared up at him. "He isn't- Papa wasn't stupid!"
Aspros' grip on his shoulder tightened, and he shook his chin a little. Sisyphus could see it in his eyes: don't challenge Ichthýes Lugonis. The man was lackadaisical around training and rarely punished anyone, but genuine disrespect he tended to answer with roses.
Zaphiris stepped into the room, deftly stepping around Lugonis before sticking one arm between them. "Cool it, fish. You weren't so nice to be around either when Raitis went."
The look Lugonis turned towards his colleague was dangerous enough that Sisyphus squirmed backward, into Aspros' ribs as though he were a bowerbird trying to make a home there. Aspros bore it without complaint, keeping his eyes on the pair of Gold Saints.
Pope Sage sighed. Lugonis shook his head, and turned back toward him. "Are you sure it wasn't poison? Something slow-acting that he might not have noticed immediately?"
Lugonis raised an eyebrow. "You're asking me that, as though I wouldn't have noticed myself the moment he'd drunk poison. Don't know if you're trying to accuse me or if you just really want him to have died 'n a way that wasn't stupid as all Hades."
Sisyphus stood up. Anyone who knows archery knows that dry-firing a bow will break it. It was still in his hands as he rose, the string pulled back behind his cheekbone, an arrow notched that hadn't been there a moment prior. "How dare you-?!"
Aspros, ever the quick-thinking cadet, grabbed the bowstring, preventing him from firing. Lugonis only looked at Sisyphus, mildly, as though he were no more a threat than a mosquito. "Well, the kid didn't do it." He glanced back at Pope Sage. "I'm going to summon Ilias. He'll want to know he's training his brother now."
He turned on his heel and walked out. As he vanished behind a corner, all of the fight Sisyphus had found vanished, and he deflated into Aspros' arms. Ilias… Ilias would be here soon. Ilias would know what to do.
A vessel in his brain… all his bad habits… had Sisyphus done this? Had their argument been the final straw he couldn't take…? If he hadn't gone to clear his own head, if he hadn't taken so long with the cocoa…
"Wake up, boy."
"Huh…? S-sir?"
"Pope Sage is sending me on a mission. I should be back tomorrow night. Didn't want to vanish on you."
"I can keep up my training when you're gone?"
"Ilias is home, so he can supervise if you're having problems."
"Yes, sir. Where are you going?"
"France. That damned Spectre-infested duchy has been marshalling its forces. I'm to see why."
"Bring me back a croissant, Papa?"
"Ha. Sure."
He heard Aspros say something in an apologetic tone, something about taking Sisyphus home, something about it being a bad night to be alone, at least until Ilias got back. He didn't register any of it. All he could think of was the sound of fire, as they lit the symbol of Toxótis on the clocktower. It would burn for twelve hours, to signify the death of a Gold Saint.
He'd found his father in fire, once. He'd run for help, and he'd found Ilias and his father, investigating Spectre activity. They had been able to save him, and not much more. They'd rode from the nearest city to Sanctuary in a carriage, and Sisyphus had spent most of that ride hiding under Papa's cape, curled up against his hip as his father hummed an old lullaby. The one time he'd looked out, Ilias had been staring out the window, a look of such profound anger on his face that Papa couldn't see that Sisyphus had never forgotten, nor seen on his brother's face again.
He hated fire. Papa had been trying to help him get over it - Sisyphus' hadn't been the first burning village he'd rescued survivors from, nor the last - but it had never been a winning battle. It had been a quiet dream of his, once, to become brave enough that he could accompany his father and his brother, and give someone else the same chance at recovery that he'd had.
That wouldn't happen, now. "Come on, Sisyphus," Aspros' voice murmured in his ear. "Mama will make you something to help you sleep, and you can stay with us until Sir Ilias gets back."
He nodded. What else could he do? The bow didn't leave his hands. He wasn't going to let it out of his hands ever again. Firing this bow had maybe killed Papa, and now…
No. Better to keep the weapons that had killed his father together, in one place, so no one else could ever use either again.
I wish we'd traded places, my friend, he thought, miserably. You'll never know what it feels like, to kill in the name of Athena.
The mixed scent of his father's cosmos - marble and an ashy, morning sky - clung to his bow, and to the cape around his shoulders. Aspros was clever, Aspros had grabbed one of Papa's capes for him. Even if he slept wearing it, unable to listen to his father's heartbeat as he fell asleep, that scent too would fade. He pulled the cape tighter around his shoulders anyway, and staggered forward, trying to keep up with Aspros as his friend guided him out.
The moment Pope Sage wasn't able to see them, Aspros picked Sisyphus up in a bridal carry, expression neutral with the faintest aura of haughtiness. He always wore an expression like that, when he knew he wasn't alone. Zaphiri kept up with them, hands resting against his tassets.
All was silent for a moment, save the clanking of Zaphiri's Cloth. "... Sorry for your loss, kid," he said, quietly. "And… sorry about Lugonis. You know how he is, but… That shook him up. I don't think anyone thinks you did it. He had to be sure anyway, where Sage could see. Better he ask you than Sage does."
Sisyphus offered him a shrug. Aspros felt very far away, right now, and Zaphiri even farther. "He… he killed someone, earlier."
"Ah, yeah." Zaphiri nodded, eyebrows knitting together for a moment. "The uh, Iptámenos Ichthýs? Kid had nothing when we showed up and offered him room and board, it's probably not revenge, if that's what you're asking. Some Bronze Saint ain't likely to have allies mean enough to take out Darren without a hell of a fight."
It wasn't what Sisyphus was trying to explain to him, and Zaphiri was so far away… No, it wasn't revenge or anything like that. It couldn't have been. If it was, Sisyphus could have protected him. As it was… he pressed his face into Aspros' shoulder, and didn't look up again.
He knew why Papa was gone. He wasn't going to explain it to Zaphiri, not when Zaphiri was looking at him with pity, and not with the hatred he would if he knew what Sisyphus had done. The very same look that Sisyphus must have given his father, when the Iptámenos Ichthýs fell. Far too much a coward to face the truth, he closed his eyes against his friend's shoulder, and let Aspros carry him out into the crisp Sanctuary night. Maybe if he let the world slip even father away, he'd be able to convince himself that the person carrying him was his father, away from a burning village, where he'd be safe.
Where he could still learn what it meant to be the Toxótis Saint.












